


To Know His Father

by DawnsEternalLight



Series: 2018 Hurt Comfort Bingo [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Family, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Surgery, This is kind of a three times fic, i honestly don't know how to tag this one, playing with form in fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 03:19:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnsEternalLight/pseuds/DawnsEternalLight
Summary: Damian spent his early childhood dreaming of his father. Once he's met him he's not really sure any of those dreams will ever come true.





	To Know His Father

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was a bit of me experimenting with a lot of things. I wrote this fic in three parts, spanning different bits of Damian's history and for clarity's sake I'm going to lay out the different sections in the end notes because I don't want to spoil anything in case you just want to read.
> 
> I'm also using this for my Surgery square on H/C bingo since Damian having surgery is an important part of 2 of the 3 parts of this fic.

Damian drifted back to consciousness in waves. Waves of pain. Of agonizing fire across his body and bones that felt broken and shattered. He hoped Mother would not ask him to walk. He hoped the arms cradling him belonged to her. Pretended behind the pain catching his breath and burning his lungs that it was her smooth gait taking him to safety. So far, he had not been asked to do anything and so he let his mind drift in and out like the boat had rocked on the sea. Like his legs had caught him back and forth keeping his balance as he’d stood between Mother and Father. Like his heart had rocked back and forth between his parents on that boat.

Damian did not want to think about Mother and Father. Did not want to think about the choice he was asked to make. Somehow it hurt more than shattered bones and sliced skin. Why couldn’t they just be a family? The question bounced around his head like a hammer against it until Damian let the waves take him back under, safe in their darkness.

 

  
He drifted in with cold on his back. Cold on his neck. Cold cold cold that didn’t seem to numb the pain. Cold that couldn’t fight the fire. Cold that dipped his sloggy mind into a place of fear. Damian knew this cold and he wanted to escape it more than he’d wished to escape thoughts of Mother and Father. But the cold would not let him go. Damian tried to jerk away from it, his eyes fluttering open only to slam shut against too bright light. He opened his mouth, like a fish torn from its home only to blubber.

Mother’s voice washed in, oblivious of his plight. High with success and happiness. She was directing. Damian heard his name, heard the semblance of praise but the words were lost in the jumble of his head and the pain crashing against the sides of his skull filling it like water in a jar. Her voice did nothing to soothe the terror racing against pain. Again, he jerked his arm, and a restraint caught the action, sending another wave of panic over him. He wanted off. He wanted his mother. He wanted to be away.

He tried to say no. Tried to find the words in the blackness of his eyes squeezed shut that he did not need whatever replaced Mother wanted replaced. That he would be okay. A needle slipped under his arm, promising relief and Damian let it take him. He did not want to be awake on the operating table. He did not want to be a rat under the hands of white gloves.

 

  
Across from him in the dark stood his Father. Black as the night around them. Cape pooled around him like wings folded but too big to rest against his back, and so they draped around his frame. Damian wanted Father to reach for him. To tell mother that it was not Damian’s choice. To decide for him. To take him back. To demand Damian stay with him.

Father did none of those things. Father did not even look at Damian. His attention was on Mother. His jaw set in an angry line. Upset, because her plans had interrupted his life. Because Damian had crashed into a place he did not belong.

That jaw was so dissapointed. It was much like Mother’s. Tight. Lips pressed together. Almost sculpted in its refusal to budge. Damian knew his mother’s disappointment well. He had memorized the way her her face changed when he had done something wrong. But he also knew her pride. The way her eyes sparkled and one side of her lips dimpled as she did not quite smile at him. How her face softened for a moment before they were back to work.

Damian had lived for that look, more so than the words that followed it. More than almost anything. He doubted his father would ever look at him that.

 

  
It didn’t hurt as much the next time his brain tried to pull him into the waking world. Damian hoped the doctors were finished. That the cold under him would be replaced with comfort and something soft. He kept his eyes closed anyway, told himself it was the ache in his head that kept him from looking around and not the fear of his eyes meeting the distant unattached eyes of one of his surgeons.

Mother’s voice continued, her liting tones familiar to his ears. Damian stayed still, eyes shut, waiting for the ghost of a hand to brush his head, or his wrist. Waiting for the warmth of his mother to come close to him.

Once upon a time Mother had brushed the hair off his head and pressed her lips to his temple. He remembered her warm arms around him, her honeyed voice telling him stories of the old days as they watched the sun drip below the sky. He remembered something else too, something heavy and dark he’d dragged over himself, a feeling of delight, and his mother’s laugh. And then he had been lifted and then he had been held and taught.

Damian waited and waited, her voice growing further away until a flicker of his eyelids told one of the doctors of his returning awareness. Too soon something lulling raced through his veins and Damian returned to his dreams.

 

  
When he met him, Damian had thought his father would be taller. He had also accepted the fact that his mind had nothing to go on beyond Mother’s stories, and he may have exaggerated with childish imaginings. He did not mind his father’s height. It was a good height, still tall, still imposing, but not an unreachable tower.

For years Damian had pictured his father as a figure of the tallest stature. One wreathed in darkness and proud. He had imagined him in many forms, and pictured many faces. Had wished for the same pride on his face his mother sometimes showed. He had pretended and wondered and imagined. It was nice to have something now. A firm height and build. A figure that was no longer an untouchable shadow.

Sometimes late at night when his body ached and his mother had not come to check on him Damian used to pretend that his father had. Imagined not a small dainty hand, but one large and callused cupping his cheek and tugging his blanket tight around him. That soft words would wash over him and help him sleep.

 

  
Movement woke Damian next. Warm stone hallways greeted his eyes. He looked up to see dark hair and a face in shadow. For the briefest of moments he thought it was his Father, and then light from a torch splashed across the face. One of his attendants carried him, carefully neutral to Damian’s examining gaze. His chest hurt, but not from any external pain. It was like his heart was pressing against it trying to escape. What a fool he was.

Damian could not even recall his father’s face in detail. He had a profile. A jawline. A chin, slightly stubbled. Lips that were always frowning. When he tried to think, to lock his mind onto Father’s features a black cowl took their place. Ears that weren’t ears, standing tall. White smooth unemotional lenses that disapproved of him.

Tears pricked Damian’s eyes and he shifted towards the man’s chest, pretending it was the movement that caused him to curl closer instead of the ache digging inside him. He did not say a word as he was carried to his room and placed in his bed. As the blankets were hesitantly pulled over him and he was left alone.

 

  
Damian knew he should try to sleep again. That Mother would be by all too soon requiring him to be up and moving, even after the boat and the explosion and the table. He would have to continue his training, would have to make up for his catastrophic failure to win his father’s attention.

He knew he should sleep, but he could not stop trying to piece together his father’s face. He had seen it. He had looked into eyes and seen tousled hair, but all Damian could imagine was anger. Irritation. Inconvenience. Damian had done nothing right the entire time he had been in Gotham and it burned inside him like acid.

He tried to picture blue eyes glittering with something like happiness. Tried to imagine that gruff get-on-with-it tone softened to something else. Damian should not want those things, but Pennyworth had made it seem-- had caused Damian to believe that perhaps he could expect something different in his father’s home.

Not that he would get the chance to find out. Damian had wasted his chance on anger and sullenness and doing all the wrong things to win his father’s affection.  
  
Why had he been so wrong? What had he done wrong?

He curled slightly, stitches pulling and aches reviving as he tugged the blanket tighter around himself. Father had not been happy about Damian trying to kill Drake. Father had not wished him to kill an associate, he could accept that. So he had moved to assist his father with his war in Gotham. There, despite what Mother would call a success, he had still failed. What should have earned him that look of pride, that slight softening, and perhaps a hand on his shoulder had the opposite effect. Father had only been further angered by his attempt.

His chest hitched, the pain from waking reviving. He did not understand. He did not know what to do. Perhaps it was better that Damian was with Mother once again. Perhaps it was good that Father had not wanted him to return.

He hiccuped and choked back something like a sob. He could not cry. If he did perhaps they would believe it was from pain. But he must not do it anyway. A warrior does not show his weakness in that way. Only Damian wanted, he wanted, he needed, something. He knew Mother would not be checking on him. She had seen his progress already, sent him to his room to continue resting. She would not come and provide any comfort.

He tried to picture Father stepping into the room. Tried to hear a warm murmur and hand against his cheek. All he could see was that cowl. The scowl. A growl of anger.

He had thought it would be better when he had met his father, but now he was sure things were worse.

~

Damian was wide awake. Wide wide awake and trying desperately not to pass out. No one was carrying him in that moment. No one was jarring his shredded back with any kind of movement. Even his Batman’s hand was gentle on his own. No. Damian could not be moved until medical help arrived. Until his mother’s doctors showed up to take him away.

Damian told his Batman that he was not in pain. Damian lied. He could not feel his lower half but that did not mean he couldn’t feel where his head had been smashed into the ground or at least one of the bullets pierced his side above the numbness. He pretended he did not feel any of that so he would not hear more panic creep into Batman’s voice.

Damian did not like hearing his Batman worried like that. The tone put him on unsteady ground and set his mind abuzz with confusion. He did not want to think about the way something warm tried to expand inside of him when Batman was worried about him. He was afraid of what it would do, of how it would cut him and break him into a hundred pieces. How if he let that warmth take him it would only be gone too soon.

He turned his focus back on the pain. The lightness in his head and the way his chest hurt pressed against rubble. He had been shot time and time again, of course he could feel it. His mind supplied phantom pain in the missing section. An ache in his foot. His knee digging into rubble. Blood trickling down his leg. Of course he felt it, even if it wasn’t real.

 

  
His batman’s voice drifted together with that of the Commissioner’s. Discussing his brother. Jason. Father’s lost son. The Flamingo and all of the destruction around them. Cold brushed over Damian as Mother’s men arrived. Cold dug its way into his belly as his Batman reassured him that things would be fine. That he would be fine. Cold pressed against his cheek as he was loaded onto a stretcher. Strapped there so he would not fall.

Batman’s voice flowed over him, working out quick details with the men. Asking for a time frame, insisting on a promise that Damian would be returned. That they could come for Damian. He wanted to say no, wanted to beg to stay. He did not need a new spine. He did not need to walk if he could just stay. His Batman squeezed his hand one more time and let him be slipped into the vehicle and back into his mother’s care.

 

  
Damian dreamed of how they’d lowered Father’s body into the ground. Blackness wrapping around the casket like wings pulled over for protection. How the more the grave was filled the hollower his chest became as the time drew near for him to be sent back. Back to Mother and back to everything he no longer wanted.

Richard had put a hand on his shoulder. Turned him away from the grave and tucked him into the car. His attention was on Damian. His face worried, mouth turned down in a frown as Damian interrupted his gentle questions about dinner with a demand to know when he was being sent away.

Richard’s disappointment was different. It was not in Damian. It seemed inward and then not. His jaw tightened, fingers curled into fists in his lap. His whole body tensed, lips pressed into a line. Damian thought for a moment he had done something wrong. Then Richard’s expression softened, and saddened. Damian could not help but think the look like one a nursmaid had given him once when he’d asked why the other children did not train as he did. Then Richard had shook his head, telling Damian he was right where he belonged.

Damian couldn’t get that look out of his head. Couldn’t forget the words that followed it. He wondered if his father had ever told Richard the same types of things.

 

  
He tried to ignore the spark of ache that dug at him when it was only Pennyworth who picked him up. Fortifying his walls with airy words and a lofty attitude. He was happy to be back in Gotham. The warm air of his mother’s home replaced by the cold of Gotham. He kept his new spine as tall as he could in the chair, his stance regal and unmoving. Richard was not spurning him on purpose, he was not even in the country.

Damian continued to tell himself that Richard was not trying to get rid of him as he learned his Batman was attempting to revive their father. And again as the mangled not-father attacked him. The creature’s twisted mind telling Damian he was the failure. He was the problem. He was unwanted. The cold words sinking in, even though Damian knew they were not truly his father’s.

Once not so long ago, Mother and Father had worked together to save him. Mother had ushered him towards his father. Her hands had reached out over and over for him to shield him from Grandfather. Father had arrived in a fit of fury and rage. Damian remembered the word son. Remembered the burst of joy it had set off within him.

Damian tried to ignore the way this false father’s voice sounded the same. The way he promised to rid the world of the mistake he’d made. Tried not to think of his own father regretting his existence. And then he was flung off the roof of the place he’d learned to call home.

 

  
Richard Grayson was not the man Damian had expected him to be. He was a man of many sides. Thin and agile, not the hulking figure Father was. Yet, he seemed to be the tower Damian could not hope to climb. And he was bright. Like the sun, quick to give praise and unabashed about showing how proud he was of Damian.

Damian had no knowledge of Richard beyond the stories everyone spoke. The first Robin. Trained by Father and one of his closest allies. Damian did not have time to try to imagine him. From the moment Richard Grayson entered his life he felt there to stay. Each day was a learning experience, each day Richard seemed to prove his words. Damian did not have to wonder about him, he simply needed to ask.

There was not a night now when he did not feel the shadow of his Batman cross over him to check in. The first time Richard had brushed a hand across his forehead Damian had been up in a moment knife to his brother’s neck. After that, he got used to the gentle words and the way Richard made sure Damian was comfortable when he recovered from injuries. It was nice to feel warm and safe as he drifted off.

 

  
His Batman caught him, of course, always in time always with a flowery show. He rolled his eyes at that familiar grin and grumbled to his brother. He had to school his expression to not be one of relief or happiness at the turn of events. His back hurt from all the exertion but his chest filled with warmth at being caught. Being wanted. It was silly and foolish and everything Richard was trying to teach him.

Richard’s smile after the fight was easily brought back to mind. Damian knew the face under the cowl better than he knew it in it. Richard held its weight differently than Father had. When patrol was over Richard pulled the cowl back, spending as little time in it as possible. When they were out there were frowns, but there was instruction and smiles. To Damian, Richard’s voice matched the cowl best when poking and prodding and teaching.

When Richard lifted Damian from his chair to carry him upstairs he did not argue. He was sore and tired and as the flood of emotions from the fight died down Damian wanted little more than to sleep away the pain in his body. He curled close to Richard, pretending he’d already fallen asleep as they took the final few steps towards his room. He listened to his brother’s quiet whispers of apology and was not disappointed to feel the brush of warm lips against his forehead as he was tucked in to sleep.

 

  
Damian did not know how to react to the idea that Father was still alive. He did not know what to do with the nervous fluttering in his chest. The fear that twisted under it. He would not be able to say no. To tell Richard he did not want things to change. He would have to act as normal.

He could not stop trying to figure out what would happen. Father would of course take back Batman. Richard would take back Nightwing. And Damian? Had he learned enough to no longer be an inconvenience? To be more than a thorn in his father’s side? Or perhaps would he be allowed to leave Gotham and stay with Richard?

Father’s face was still a blur in Damian’s mind, but he tried to picture his father proud of his achievements. Tried to hear that voice call him Robin. Tried not to let himself imagine being sent back to Mother. Sent away from the place he had come to call home.

He hoped that Richard was there when he found out. Hoped that having his Batman by his side would give him the chance he needed to try again. To be seen and wanted by Father.

He hoped he was better. Hoped he was good enough now.

He went to curl in on himself and thought better of it, his back protesting it from the first inkling of movement. He snatched a pillow from beside him and pressed it to his chest. He had done so much, helping Richard and stepping into the role of Robin. He had sworn not to kill and had kept that promise. Richard seemed proud of him, and Pennyworth often commented on how he seemed to be settling in. He felt ready to prove himself to his father, the right way this time. And if he didn’t? If was sent away? Mother’s request to return home and her words about his foolish choice echoed in his head. Her disownment still stung, prompting a wetness behind Damian’s eyes.

Why could they not simply be a family? He squeezed the pillow closer to himself. He hoped Richard did not leave. He did not want to lose what he had gained. He did not want to deal with something new.

He sucked back tears and pushed down the fear attempting to eat him from the inside. He could not break down. He must be strong. Richard must not see how scared he was. How afraid of Father’s disapproval he was. How he was worried the few things that felt firm would begin to crumble. He wanted Richard to tell him it was going to be okay. Wanted him to promise things might change but that they wouldn’t. That Batman and Robin would never die.

He tried to imagine them all together. Imagine Father as Batman again. Richard in black and blue, arm around Damian’s shoulders. He thought it might work. That they would be fine. That now, he would fit just right.

If he asked Richard, he knew he’d say that when Father returned things would be even better then they were. He just wasn’t sure he could believe him.

~

Light. Warmth. Something familiar, like home or love or...Father. Damian’s eyes opened to see his father before him. His warm, callused, hand on his cheek. His eyes lit with the same bright warmth in Damian’s chest. He did not have to pretend to wake up and find his father there. Or to imagine what it would be like if he were safe, and warm, and happy. It was in front of him, swirling light like wind on a Spring day. Damian fell close, throwing his arms around his neck and breathing in the impossibility of it all. Of being with Father. Of being here. Of not being in pain.

Damian did not want to think about before. Did not want to remember the sword that pierced through him. The choice his mother had made to let him die. It had hurt more than anything in the world. Why couldn’t they just be a family? That question didn’t seem to matter here in these few moments in his father’s arms. He had a family, right here, right now.

 

  
He had a moment of peace and then a fight with a being from a different world. Chaos and confusion that he fought. Next to Father and Todd and Drake and Pennyworth. With his animals by his side and strange powers thrumming under his skin. Powers that hummed and sang and felt like the golden breeze that had pulled him home. Ones that promised him safety and strength. He did not fight them, did not try to run from what they could give. He used them, and let them build, and burst, and crash out to protect his family.

When it was over, Pennyworth’s voice pulled at his attention. Todd’s and Gordon’s and Drake’s. Father’s too. Joyful and astounded. They washed over Damian, praise and happiness at his return. Relief that the fight was over. He was half distracted by the music in his head. The hum of magic. Magic that had brought him back and had made him something new. Magic his Father had sought out for him. He leaned into Father’s side as his arm went around him when they climbed the stairs up to the house. Let the hum inside match something dancing across his Father’s skin and felt peace.

No one that evening told him no. Anything he asked for was given. His opinion was valued and Damian felt squeezed between the crush of his family. He was okay, better than that. Yet everyone seemed to need to reassure themselves of the truth. Damian did not mind giving them the relief they sought. He allowed hugs and glances and the occasional hair ruffle. He let himself feel at home.

 

  
Damian had dreamed of Father, in that other place. The place of warmth and light and love. The place that was too fuzzy for clear thought anymore, but had not been so bad. Damian had dreamed of his Father’s proud face knowing he had done something heroic as his last act. Dreamed of having him pull him close into a warm embrace. To tell him he was proud, delighted. That he loved Damian.

He had. He had done all of those things when Damian returned. Damian was warm, snuggled close to his father as he tried to sleep now. Father had come for him. Pulled him out of death and back home. He had interrupted his life for Damian’s, and told him exactly where he belonged.

He could not describe the way his whole self warmed when Father looked at him since he had been back, but it was what he had wanted. What he had needed. Father’s eyes were softer. His jaw set in something that was not anger, and not even set. It twitched, and Father kept biting his cheek. Damian could see it when the skin got a little indent. He wanted to memorize this new look. Learn the lines that had changed on Father’s face and bottle the glittering happiness in his eyes.

Damian loved that look. More than anything that had come of his return to life. He didn’t want to do anything to make that look disappear.

 

  
He woke to a dull ache the next morning. Father was still there and Damian was still warm but something was missing. He kept his eyes closed, his face pressed close to his father’s chest. He told himself the worry in his chest was nothing. That Richard was simply away and unavailable for the rescue mission.

Father was the one who told him. Damian made him, the argument to pull truth from him as familiar as ever. At his words, Damian’s chest had frozen. His heart locked in place. Waiting for someone to tell him it was a lie. For Grayson’s voice to interrupt and warm the cold pit inside him.

Once upon a time he had a different Batman. A partner who’d brought him into the fold and taught him about his father’s legacy. He’d been given a mantle and a name and a place. He’d been given the family he’d always wanted by that Batman. And this one, Father, also offered that. Freely and lovingly had pulled him in. He had had Richard.

Damian had died for Richard. He had died to save his brother and all he wanted was to hear that voice again. To wake up from the false reality that his brother was dead. To be told it was a lie a fake out some kind of cruel joke. He had died for Richard, and because of it, Richard was now dead.

 

  
Damian had grown taller, and he hated it. He hated that he could not tell Richard of his growth, or stand next to the man to see where he measured up. He did not want to grow any taller while Richard was gone. Damian refused to think that word. Dead. If he could be brought back from it, so could his brother. If if having that as truth was feeling more and more unreachable with each day.

Damian used to pretend to be taller than his father and brother. That he’d grow up up up and they would finally stop looking down. He wondered if it wasn’t so much a need to get taller but to match them. To be as good a man as each of them were. He had wanted them to be proud of him. And he had his father’s pride, but his brother was gone.

Late at night, Damian thought of ways to bring Richard back. To sneak away from Father’s careful eye and return his brother to life. But all he could think of was the pit. Of green liquid wrapping around Richard and bringing back a man that was different. Father’s promise (and Damian’s belief) that not trying was the better option sat cold in his stomach while he tried to sleep.

 

  
It was months later and Damian was alone. Only he wasn’t. Movement alerted him to another presence. Warm blue eyes greeted his. He pelted forward and jumped up into the arms he’d wanted for so long, not a shadow between them now. For the briefest of moments Damian relished Richard’s hold, then set into the man with a light jab about him already knowing how foolish he had been to fake his death. He would let Richard carry him forever if he could, but allowed himself to be set on his feet, his chest bursting with joy. He was grinning like a fool.

Richard’s face was just like Damian remembered it. Maybe a little more tired. Maybe a little worn, but he knew it. That smile. He had missed it with an ache he’d never imagined he could survive. Remembering Richard’s smile had been what got Damian through hard nights. Having it again soothed his soul.

He sucked back tears, it would be silly to cry from being happy. Even if Father had shortly after Damian was alive again. Even if Richard’s eyes were glittering themselves. There were many words to be said, and not enough time to say them all. Damian leaned into another embrace and knew he wasn’t alone.

 

  
Having Father and Richard together in the manor meant Damian would not sleep. Or if he did it would be very late and he would be very tired because of it. That was fine. The next day required nothing from him beyond being awake enough to spend it with his family.

He looked at the two men next to him and noted how similar their faces were. It was a silly comparison to make since they were not related by blood, however there must be truth to the saying that people look like each other when they spend a lot of time together. Father laughed like Richard. Richard shifted slightly the way Father often did when he needed to stretch but didn’t want to move. They had worn off on each other in all the best ways. And maybe a few of the worst, but Damian would not tell them that.

Father was happier with Richard home. Richard was lighter, less controlled. Damian could see the years between them, and tried to imagine himself wedged in for the future. He imagined how they, and the rest of his family would rub off on him. How they already had.

He was delighted to get the chance to find out. He would not waste this chance with anger or sullnesses or doing all the wrong things again.

Father would not let him fail. Richard would not turn him astray.

He snuggled closer to his Father’s side, prompting Richard to scoot closer as well. Father grunted but did not move to push them away, only adjusted the blanket draped across their laps, tucking it close again. Richard poked him about his day and then Father about his patrol the evening before. This, Damian decided, was success. His Batmen alive and together was the furthest thing from failure. It was Damian’s personal pride, a soft spot within him. It was everything he’d wanted for so long.

His chest swelled, open and painless. He thought he understood now, how Richard had talked about Father. The formless imaginings Damian had had long ago. He no longer felt lost or confused. He was content with knowing his family wanted him.

Richard’s fingers dug into his side, tickling his weak spot and Damian giggled. Holding back a full laugh for a moment before Father joined the attack. Mother might have called this weakness, but Damian knew better now. He knew that letting himself have fun (feel, be loved) was good. He squirmed and demanded they stop until he’d wormed his way over his father’s shoulder only to be plucked and tucked back between them, warm hands a comfort now.

He snuggled again between them as things were calm again. Hearing the murmur of his Batmen above him, and feeling his hair rustled once, then twice. A laugh, a grunt.

He had thought once it was worse to have met his father. He knew now how wrong that thought had been.

**Author's Note:**

> The first section focuses on the bit of time after Damian's first brush with Bruce when he's returned home with Talia after a boat explosion. Somewhere after Batman #658.-669ish. 
> 
> The second takes place during Batman and Robin where Dick is Batman and deals with the events after the Flamingo fight and Dick trying to bring Bruce back from the dead. 
> 
> The third is a combo of Damian's resurrection and Dick coming back from Spyral.


End file.
